


Eiledon

by Dryad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, Scotland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 11:27:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5495468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I choose this place to call my own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eiledon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sherlockian4evr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/gifts).



> Happy Holmestice, Sherlockian4evr!
> 
> There is a wee playlist for this story, which I would post if I didn't have a stupid connection today. - Eventually there will be one massive playlist for this work.
> 
> Sequel to [Fields of Fire](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4904923), but that doesn't have to be read in order to enjoy this story.

"Aye, and did she give you the eye as well?"

"That and more," replied John with a grin and a wink, slipping the dirk back into its sheath.

Malcolm and Syme and James broke into laughter, and John left them to the skinning and dressing of the deer they had brought down. He wanted a bit of a think by himself, and he wouldn't get it around that lot. Given they were in the heart of Watson lands he felt quite confident in heading to the glade by himself. These were troubled times, yet a man had to take himself away every now and again, didn't he? 

John walked swiftly through the field. He patted the stone head of an old Roman god as he went through a set of familiar ruins. Had it been a homestead? An Army outpost? A trading stand? A temple? Or maybe all of that, rolled into one bit of land along the frontier of the north? It was still a frontier, and he felt battled from all sides. The question was, what was he going to do about it? The Clan had to survive, regardless of whether or not he did. He was bound and determined to do more than that, however. He could see the Clan through to the next King, be he English or Scottish, presuming he could just make it through the current warfare. Which was why it was so dangerous, this rare luxury of freedom for a few hours. He saw and heard nothing, and continued on across the field, waded through the river, and went on into the forest.

There was a snap behind him and John stopped, hand on his dirk, turned around. The forest was silent for a moment, too, before the trill of birds began again. He saw no movement, heard little else save the low call of a wood pigeon, and with a shake of his head he relaxed and returned to his journey. Well, it was good to know he had someone to count on should he run into trouble. 

The trees thinned as the land rose into a gentle hill, crowned at the top with a glade. Within the glade was a gift of Nature; a natural spring rising out of a stand of birch and oak, surrounded by a ring of standing stones. Running from the top of the hill was a burn, which John followed up, taking care not to turn an ankle on the mossy stones shaded by the canopy of leaves. As if by magic, one moment he was in the forest, and the next he was moving between stones taller than he was, easily twice Alexander's great height, if not more. 

"Hello, stones," he murmured, pausing to pat one far above his head. He walked around to what he privately called 'the gate', where one massive lintel still stood on the shoulders of its companions. He liked going through and leaving here, it felt sacred, it felt honest. He felt like he was honored every time. Through the gate, then, with him clearing his mind at the same time. 

He walked through the gate and headed towards the spring. It was another miracle, burbling out of a depression in the very earth itself. Whoever had stacked the stones around the base of the spring had also created a collection point for the water in the middle of the great circle. It was, in effect, a small but deep pond. The odd thing was that nothing grew there. No cattails or marsh grasses, no water flowers. The water remained crystal clear, all the better to see the pattern of stones on the bottom. When he was little, when his mother had brought him here, John had dived to the bottom of the pond, trying to prise up one of the stones. To his surprise, they were little bigger than his thumbnail, and refused to come up no matter how often he had tried to pry them up. He also learned the hard way that they were practically indestructible. John had made this discovery with Callie, having been her cushion for a lovely bit of dalliance one summer morning. The cache, only slightly under the soil, had come loose as she rode him, digging into his back something fierce. He'd thought it was a bunch of nuts a squirrel had forgotten about, and was greatly surprised to find glittering squares of gold and scarlet and silver and white glass, instead. He'd given Callie a gold one, made promises to her she failed to keep, wedding Ruarigh instead. Served her right, marrying that bastard. That's what he'd thought, at least until the night the household was awoken by her terrible screams as the babe she was carrying made an early arrival. The babe had died, and so had Callie, bleeding to death minutes later. Ruarigh had hurled the bright bit of gold into her grave as she was being buried. 

John had gone to war shortly afterward, and if Ruarigh and he happened to meet upon the battlefield, and only one of them walked away, it was easy to mistake friend for foe in the height of bloodlust, wasn't it? 

People had taken notice of him, after that. The Watson had spoken to him on occasion, and even invited him to table during the high holidays.

The pattern on the bottom of the pond was dull until the sun shone directly upon them, and that was when they turned to sunlight and fire. Curious, John had also come here during the full moon, and to his great shock, he discovered the silver ones turned to stars. 

He stripped, laid his clothes aside, though he kept the dirk and broadsword within easy reach, and stepped into the water. It was chill, yet within a moment it always seemed to warm to skin temperature. John had never found water that was similar in nature, and he doubted he ever would. No, the pond, the spring, the stones. It wasn't natural, and yet it was. 

John ducked his head under, ran his fingers through his hair, turned to float on his back for awhile, supported by gentle water. He felt he was removed from the world whenever he came here, and it was no different now. The stones stood and kept faithful watch. He wondered if this was what it was like after a person died, all peace and beauty. He'd rather have it while he was alive, thank you very much. 

On the way here his purpose was quiet, a place to think about what needed doing, and how soon, but he found himself thinking instead about Sherlock Holmes. Who had, indeed, solved the mystery of the deaths in the infirmary, and John had meted out justice with banishment and blade. Sherlock had proven himself in myriad ways that John hadn't expected. The little brother of the Kingmaker was far too smart for his own good. He was, in fact, so smart that John was beginning to think the Kingmaker had sent him here deliberately, just so he could do his machinations without any trouble.

He closed his eyes, floated. Listened to the sighing of the trees, the whispering of their leaves. Gradually, he became aware of being observed. There was nothing in particular that warned him, just...a feeling. With little hesitation and hopefully no warning to whoever was watching, he turned over and swam to the bank, put on his shirt and boots, grabbed his dirk. The feeling went away...and John took advantage of the fact he had laid out his kilt before he'd even gotten into the water. He laid down and belted up as fast as he could, popped back to his feet, not nervous, no, not anxious either, simply eager to meet whomever was watching him. He strode from the glade without a backwards glance, slapped his favorite stone farewell on the way.

John stopped by the burn. There was a scrape in the moss along the burn's bank - someone had slipped. John grinned fiercely - he had him! There, and there, more bootprints in the mud where the burn split, crushed grass. He nodded to himself. Whoever this was, they certainly weren't used to being in this kind of terrain. Definitely not a person used to being tracked. They had done their best, but it wasn't enough.

He followed the trail out of the forest, though still on Watson land, nearly losing tumbling arse over teakettle on the rocks. The burn pooled here, where the land had been hollowed by some ancient cataclysm and turned into a bog. He clambered over the ledge of rock, spied his prey, shook his head. "Ou est Davey?"

Sherlock jerked up from whatever it was he was inspecting at the edge of the bog, his eyes wide and frightened. He near collapsed in relief when he realized who it was - he hunkered down, clearly relieved to see John. A moment later he had gathered himself, speaking to John as if he meant to act that way all along. "I left him in the good company of a large amount of ale. Your accent isn't getting any better, by the way. We should have lessons more often."

John frowned. A dead hostage wasn't a good hostage as far as he was concerned, and Sherlock slipping away was a good indication that that was how he was going to end up; dead. "Y'have to stop doing this, Sherlock. You're a stranger in these parts, get in the wrong company and you'll be dead before you know it."

"I'm fine, John. I'm careful."

John shook his head, jumped from the rock to the ground, felt it quake beneath his feet. "Not careful enough."

Sherlock didn't reply, just eyed him up and down, then returned to his study of the plant he was holding.

"Bogbean," said John. He took out his little knife and collected a handful of leaves, tucked them into a scrap of cloth he kept in his sporran for just such purposes. "Good for fever, the ague, digestion."

"You said you were a doctor, not an herbalist," said Sherlock, gesturing at the leaves John held.

"And so I am," John carefully wrapped the small parcel flat, then put it back into his sporran. "I don't ignore what's useful just because some college of medicine deems it an Old Wives tale."

Sherlock made no response. He stood up and made a full body stretch. "I'm ready to go back, now."

"Aye, you are," John instantly decided to make an example out of Davey. Anyone who thought it was all right to allow Sherlock loose would have to be told differently, and right quick.

They made their way back to the castle slowly, Sherlock having to stop and examine a new plant every so often, or exclaim over a view. After four months in his company, John was fairly sure Sherlock was not spying any more than any other hostage would do. Or at least, he was sure he wasn't doing it out of malicious intent, but just because that's what Sherlock did, no matter the situation. And...it was a pleasure to watch a sharp mind at work. Certainly one of the most intelligent men John had ever met, if not necessarily one with social wits. John suppressed a smile at that. Sherlock was an open book and not one inclined to secrets and lies, mostly because he couldn't be bothered. He hoped.

They were just approaching the house when Alec Brodie called down from the gates.

"John! Y've got a visitor!"

"Aye? Who then?" John shouted back.

"Master Moriarty and Lord Moran!"

"Who?" asked Sherlock quietly, walking next to John as if he had every right in the world.

"Master Moriarty and Lord Moran, his slave and servant, " John muttered darkly. "The kind of men you watch when they're standing in front of you in order to see how they're going to stab you in the back."

"What do they do?"

"Merchant men, or so they say," John entered the house and went up the stairs to the little parlour. On the landing he paused, turned to Sherlock, who had of course followed him. "Sherlock - you stay out here. You can listen at the door and tell me what you hear later, but you stay out here, ken?"

Sherlock''s expression was almost comical; surprised, pleased, nervous. "How will you know I'm not lying to you?"

He couldn't name the reason, he only knew the truth of how he felt. "I'll know."

Sherlock blinked at him. Blinked again. "Yes all right," in a rush.

"Fine," John punctuated his next words with a shake of his finger. "Don't antagonize anybody, not if you can help it. I know it'll be hard, but don't do it. They'll bait you and bait you and when you finally jump for the prize, that's when you discover you're already in a man-trap."

"Then why deal with them?"

"I wouldn't, if I had the choice. Unfortunately my father before me, and my grand-da before him, borrowed heavily from their private bank, and now they're collecting on the debt. I've got some coin, but not enough - not near enough."

Sherlock smiled, ever so slightly. "Go jump for bait, then." 

Leaving Sherlock in the hall with Callum the Younger and Gordon, John opened the door to the little parlour. There were no windows here, it was lit solely by torches and arrow slits far above their heads that shed little, if any, light. Folding rope ladders to access the arrow slits were neatly stacked to the left, on the inside of the parlour door. The only furniture was a large round table, not as big as the one at the fabled court of King Arthur, but it could easily seat ten or twelve. Sturdy, heavy chairs, limewashed walls. Braziers instead of a fireplace. A room for planning.

Master Moriarty was already seated, while Lord Moran stood next to a blazing brazier, his flat, dead eyes giving John the willies as usual. Moriarty did as well, but for different reasons. John could handle Moran, he was a straightforward killer with sick tendencies towards the living. Disgusting, yet not unusual. Moriarty, on the other hand, was a true snake in the grass and the far more dangerous of the pair. This would be their first meeting with him alone since his father's death. In fact, this would be their first meeting, period. He had only seen them in passing, before, and overheard the Watson and Alexander discussing their lendings and their debts. The Watson had borrowed extensively in his war against the English - when he wasn't fighting the other clans.

"Watson," Moriarty greeted him, deigning to rise and give John a little bow, mocking though it was. "Good greetings to you. And who's outside?"

"Sherlock Holmes," called Sherlock, before John had a chance to give him a different name. 

Moriarty's eyes took on a sudden gleam. "Ah, I see. A hostage," He turned to John." Well done."

"What do you want?" asked John, keeping himself between Moran and Sherlock even though Billy and the Giant stood guard on the inside of the door.

"Payment, of course," answered Moriarty. He sat down, crossed his legs, looking as comfortable as a king. "Though I'd be quite happy to take over this little operation of yours, I have better things to do, and certainly far better places to be."

"I owe you nothing," said John, staring right at Moriarty. "That was my father's debt, not mine."

"The lending is on this lovely castle, not your singular person. The law _is_ on my side."

Which John of course knew only too well. He had done his research, consulted various legal entities. He did have monies enough to pay off a third of it, but no more. The question was, how much was Moriarty willing to settle for right _now?_.

"I need cash, not barter or like in kind."

"I can pay you one quarter of what my father owed."

Moriarty raised his eyebrows. "That much? I see I have work to do."

John could have kicked himself for offering so much. The only reason he even had that much was due to the successes he had had warring with the MacLarens, and of course beating back the English. Capturing their coin during the ambush on the King's Road had been unexpected, and most welcome. Then again, the sooner Moriarty was paid off, the sooner John could go about his business without thinking of the man. Or Moran, for that matter. But maybe he and Moran would meet on the battlefield, and the question would be answered for once and for all. He rather enjoyed that thought. "Come back tomorrow. I'll tell you where you can collect it."

Because he wasn't so foolish as to suggest he kept hundreds of pounds here in the house. 

Even though far below his feet was where the gold lay.

Moriarty rose and sauntered to the door. At the last instant he turned and eyed Sherlock up and down. "Such a pretty boy. I'm not surprised you keep him all to yourself."

Moran did the same, to both John and Sherlock, one corner of his mouth curling up in a most unpleasant manner as he did so.

Ten days later, after the surprisingly non-confrontational exchange of money with Moriarty and Moran, John took Sherlock to the standing stones. 

John floated, while Sherlock inspected the stones and the spring and the pond, though he did not go for a swim. He seemed content to sit on the bank and watch John, which was...interesting. John was used to having to work, getting the attention of lasses. He knew he was not the tallest man, nor the most good-looking, so he honed his skills in the bedroom to the point where he had a well-deserved reputation. He enjoyed women, and he made sure they knew it. He was not disdainful of the attentions of men, on the rare occasion an interest was professed. Now that he was the Watson of that ilk, however, he felt pressure to marry again and produce more heirs. Douglas and Callum had heirs, albeit ones outwith marriage, they could always inherit if John was inclined to step down. Which he was not.

In the likely event of his death, however, Harriet was next in line to become Chief. He thought she'd be rather good at it. But that didn't solve his problem. Sarah was keen, as was Mary, and there was always Eilidh, yet marry one of them...? He would if he had to, he decided. It wouldn't be the end of the world, and they were all pleasant enough. He wondered if he had any heirs out there already. As far as he knew, he didn't. Hmm, perhaps he should discretely find out that truth before he made rather more permanent decisions.

Thinking of women had the usual effect, and he gave himself a stroke or two. He wasn't going to sully the pond with his emission, of course not. Yet the touch of the water, being bare under another's eyes - ah. John straightened, found Sherlock, noted the intent gaze, had to moisten suddenly dry lips. Dry lips, in the middle of a pond! 

"John, come out of the water," Sherlock's voice was lower than usual, and filled with promise.

John slowly swam towards the shore until his feet touched the bottom, the colored glass turning from smooth to gritty under his feet. He stood still, returning Sherlock's gaze before letting his eyes drop to Sherlock's trews and the tent therein. "Aye, lad, and what do you want with me?"

"Come and find out," replied Sherlock.

Well, an unexpected, but not unwelcome invitation. John did as requested, boldly walking right up to the man, dripping wet and working on a full erection. Yes, now that the idea was in his head, he realized it had always been there, in the back of his mind since the first day they had met. God yes! He reached - Sherlock reached - they met in a bruise of a kiss, clawing at one another in bleak desperation. John pushed Sherlock down, down, down, straddling his legs after. "Is this what you wanted?"

"Yes - since first I saw you - " gasped Sherlock in between kisses. "My brother thinks he gave me up to barbarians, but he's saved me, hasn't he?"

"I think he has," said John, rearing up to unlace Sherlock's shirt, to unbutton his trews. He reached in to Sherlock's smalls without warning, wanting to see, touch, and taste.

John had become used to him over the months, the smile that seemed to be for John alone, the cutting remarks that John had a hard time not laughing at in public, the quick wit and fine, fine singing voice, his talent with the fiddle. Above all his knowledge, and free use of it. He had to admit that he loved the fact that Sherlock intimidated so many people, free to speak his mind in a way John himself was not, at least not in public. 

How the Kingmaker could have let him go...but then, brothers weren't always the closest of family, as John well knew.

"John," Sherlock breathed, reaching up to hold John's ribs and then up, up to his nipples, brushing his thumbs lightly over them. 

With a soft little groan, John dove down to kiss him again, because he was never going to get enough of Sherlock's mouth. He arched into Sherlock's hands, that swept down his body from shoulder to arse, urging him to move, move, move.

John happily obliged him, until he decided he needed to see all of him. He moved down, taking his trews and smalls with him, then sat back to see his handiwork. Sherlock unlaced was glorious. Long legs, long everything, far more muscular that was suggested by his clothes. He was...John couldn't wait to explore all of him. The shirt, John couldn't decide if he wanted Sherlock in or out of it. Maybe on for right now. But the shirt was tented and covering what he wanted to see, so he moved both hands up Sherlock's legs from ankles to knees to thighs, slowly pushing the shirt up until Sherlock's erection was revealed. John felt his mouth water at the sight; a fine cock with a wet heat fully extended through the foreskin, dusky with blood and pulsing as he watched. "Eager."

"Very."

Now that he'd had a glimpse, John continued to push the shirt up, revealing a long scar against Sherlock's ribs, scabbed over but clearly healing. Dark nipples standing to attention and John went in for a nibble and a scrape, both of which had Sherlock arching against him.

John wanted to take it slow; his body had other ideas. Sherlock really was eager, and it wasn't long before gentle touches turned into mauling and gripping and the odd pinch. Sherlock reached his peak first, coming with a high pitched grunt and that had John pushing against even harder against his hip. Pleasure chased and caught him hard, he collapsed on Sherlock after, who laughed and held him tight.

John rolled off Sherlock and lay flat on his back beside him, well pleased with himself. The sun was shining down on them, the air was warm, the breeze mild. He felt good. He glanced over at Sherlock, who looked back at him. John didn't even try to resist the smile, and neither did Sherlock. They lay there for awhile longer, silently, before John got to his feet and stretched. "We should head back. I'm sure Syme's wondering where I am now."

Oddly enough, Sherlock, normally the most talkative of men, was curiously silent. John would have worried more, except Sherlock seemed content, and that was good enough for John. They ambled back, washing in the burn feeding the bog. John didn't mind. He enjoyed Sherlock's company whether he was talking or not. 

Sherlock was in a wandering sort of mood. John herded him back to Watson land every so often, but otherwise followed him as he willed. So it was that he wasn't paying too much attention when Sherlock spied something, and darted out into a field without warning. "Sherlock!" John called, abruptly aware that they were indeed on the very edge of Watson territory.

Sherlock waved one hand at him and continued on. He stopped, looked at the ground, obviously tracking something. He bent over, grabbed...something, pulled, his shoulders rounding - he pulled up a plant. Comfrey? What on earth was so exciting about comfrey? John stayed behind the tree line, wary of being seen. Admittedly there was little evidence of anyone being around, but caution was habit.

Sherlock had pulled a few handfuls of the stuff up, roots and all, for a reason only god knew, and was heading back to the safety of the forest when it happened: three men rounded the edge out of the forest a half mile from where John stood. He quickly ducked behind a half-dead beech tree, nearly stabbing himself in the neck with a branch in the process. "Shite!" he whispered, knowing there was nothing he could do for Sherlock now. The men spied Sherlock and broke into a run.

"Shite, shite, _shite!_ " John crouched, making sure he wasn't visible above the meadow grass. "Come on, come on," he chanted softly.

By now, Sherlock had noticed and was racing towards John as fast as he could, still holding on to the comfrey. He looked determined, and John thought those long legs would make up ground easily - and for a minute, they did. Then Sherlock went down hard. He'd either tripped over something, or more likely, stepped into a rabbit hole. He sat up, and then stood, shaking his head and staggering into a shamble of a run before going down again. The three men were on top of him in seconds. Fists were raised once, twice, then they laughed.

Terror and anger warred within John, making his heart pound in his chest. A terrible, terrible mistake on his part, and now Sherlock was going to suffer for it. With luck, it wouldn't be with his life. John watched the men check Sherlock over, presumably for weapons, though they should know he hadn't anything on him. He was dressed like a townsman, and not a local. He was alone, ostensibly, on foot, with no even a satchel, so they wouldn't think he was a spy, even though he was English. If Sherlock was smart, he'd pretend to be French, that would buy John some time. 

And so he watched as the men took Sherlock away, hands bound before him, glancing over his shoulder only the once, before resolutely staring ahead and facing his fate. 

John didn't dare follow them. _Shite!_

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, I love Fantasy Scotland, don't you? Notes from Fields of Fire concerning dress still apply.
> 
> In case the links to the playlist disappear:
> 
> Hoireann O - Mouth Music (Jackie Joyce, Michaela Rowan)  
> Co Ni Mire Rium? - Mouth Music (Talitha MacKenzie, Martyn Bennett)  
> 'S Muladach Mi 'S Mi Air Mi'Aineoil - Talitha MacKenzie


End file.
